


I'll Come Back

by TheGoodDoctor



Series: Group Targets [26]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8387830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: People whisper when they see them. They always have.It's actually a bonus; a plus-point in your MI6 interview if you turn up with no conspicuous growths behind your shoulders. They tell themselves this, and hope to believe it.





	

 

People whisper when they see them. They always have.

It's actually a bonus; a plus-point in your MI6 interview if you turn up with no conspicuous growths behind your shoulders. They tell themselves this, and hope to believe it.

It was so astonishing to see another like them that, like young children with the same names, there was an irrational hatred from the start. James had felt cheated of his individuality, his special skill, to find that this Mallory, this _politician,_ also had no wings.

Wings grow with love. People stare in sympathy, and in horror.

Mallory decides that this is his advantage. Every morning, he binds the stubby growths tighter to his back so that they are wholly hidden under his jacket and goes out to terrify the masses. He is icy, intimidating, an unknown quantity without pressure points; somehow inhuman.

It really speeds up diplomacy.

* * *

James is going undercover.

He holds himself as still as possible as Q measures his bare chest and back, noting the position and size of his wing stubs carefully, muttering numbers under his breath. He stands back and looks appraisingly at James’ chest, and he fights the urge to clench all his muscles. “Hmm,” Q says thoughtfully. “Well, the wings we can fit should be able to just slot over the ones you have, which will feel and look more natural. We can knock them up in a day or two. I'll let you know,” he says with a small smile; clearly a dismissal, but James doesn't want to go yet.

He picks up his shirt. “So, what's got your wings so sleek?” he teases.

Q flushes lightly, turning back to his notes. “None of your business, 007.”

“Anyone I know?” James says, moving into Q’s space.

Q attempts to maintain eye contact, appearing to only now notice how shirtless Bond is. “Feather shampoo,” he deadpans, and James tries to cover his disappointment by tugging his shirt on at last.

He does catch Q looking a little disappointed himself, so shoots him a wink on the way out.

* * *

“So, what are you wearing?”

“Official mission report only, please.” Q pushes his glasses further up his nose. He's not even sure why he's trying anymore, since it's not worked before and is unlikely to work now. Oh, wait, he does know why: Eve reads the transcripts, and he has a front to maintain. He can hear Bill mock him already if they find out how he feels.

James laughs and Q pretends not to feel the rumble in every feathertip. There is a pause and Q drinks some more Miso soup. “It's the most beautiful garden, Q,” James says softly. “The sun's setting over the sea, in marigold and crimson, and there are roses in the garden. They smell glorious, Q, and the sea is silver and gold behind them.”

Q imagines it for a moment, the beautiful scene and the beautiful man and how it would feel to wrap his pigeon-like wings around them both, filtering dying light through the feathers. He abandons his soup with a sigh. “Sounds lovely.”

“Wishing you were here,” James says genuinely.

Q flails for a response, desperately glad James can't see his blush. “But there's soup to be drunk here,” he manages, kicking himself for ruining a nice moment.

James laughs again and Q drops his head into his hands. After silence, James speaks. “Q, I need to see you.”

“I won't say I'm not flattered, but-”

“No, Q, listen,” James says, urgent and serious. “My wings - my wings don't fit properly any more.”

Q is silent while absorbing this information. They've grown. James has met someone, and fallen in love, and his wings have grown. “Sure,” he croaks, crushed. “As soon as you can get away for a day or two.”

James hangs up, and Q thumps his head into his desk. He groans, loudly.

“...I'll come back,” Bill says.

* * *

James holds himself very still. For some reason, he is ashamed of his budding wings, awkward and stiff as Q appraises his new wingspan. The downy fluff is white, flecked with gold and light brown; he knows, because the small feathers have been shedding where they rub inside the false wings.

Q reaches out to measure just as James shivers in the cold and awkward room. His long, pale fingers brush against the soft down and James gasps. The shiver begins between his shoulderblades and spreads through him, head to toe.

Q backs off, hands held up in defense. “Oh, God - James, I am so, so-”

James growls low in his throat and spins, pinning him against the desk and kissing him deeply. Q relaxes into the kiss with a groan and barely notices as the light grows dimmer, James’ rapidly-growing wings blocking out the fluorescent lighting of Q-branch.

“I will actually have to speak to you eventually, Q,” Bill sighs. He closes the door behind him, shuffling his shoulders to reorganise his tawny feathers as he strides up the corridor again. His wings are the biggest in MI6 and he has to be careful in Q-branch, having caused too much destruction with ill-placed turns.

Eve sends him a warning look when he gets back. He crosses to her desk and leans over, allowing her to shield them from M’s office with one immaculate, iridescent black wing. “Something's up with him. I think it might be connected to 007.”

“Well, connected to him by the lips right now is Q,” Bill says, holding out his hand.

Eve gasps, and rummages in her desk to find him a chocolate bar - the standard payment for any gossip he chooses to give her. “But-”

“His wings are quite large, white and gold, and match his very well.” He grins as she places another chocolate in his palm. “I'll see M for you.”

His knock gets a curt “Enter,” so he obeys.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Tanner,” M says briskly. “What news?” He stands from his desk and goes to the bookshelf behind him. Something about the movement looks odd, and Bill tracks it in his peripheral vision.

“Bond is in Q-branch right now, but his wings appear to have grown to such an extent that prosthesis shouldn't be necessary.”

Gareth raises an eyebrow at him, smiling wryly. “And how well does our Quartermaster like them?”

Bill smiles. “I didn't get the chance to ask, sir.”

Gareth laughs, but stops quickly, hissing in pain and pressing a hand to his side.

Bill is up instantly, supporting his shoulder and elbow to get him into his chair. “Sir? What is it?”

Gareth tries to wave it off, but Bill tugs his jacket off anyway. There are spots of blood on his otherwise pristine white shirt.

His wings are bleeding where he has forced them to take an unnatural shape, pressing them against his back. The bandages have crumpled the feathers and rubbed the skin.

Bill rips the shirt open and hacks through the bandages with a letter-knife Gareth keeps, sharpened, on his desk. “You're a bloody idiot,” he says, crossing to the door. “Eve, get my first-aid kit from my desk, would you?” She scrambles up and he shuts the door again.

“It's fine,” Gareth says.

“It bloody isn't,” Bill says, gently pulling the stunted wings away from his body in order to stretch them and see the damage. Gareth hisses. “Yeah, well, if you hadn't been so stupid, it wouldn't hurt.”

“Oh my God,” Eve says, handing the kit across on autopilot. “Those wings are four feet at least! You can't keep them crushed away.”

Gareth hangs his head. Eve crouches by his seat and holds his hand as Bill pulls the broken feathers out and applies salve to the sores. “I would recommend seeing a doctor about the bones, but I know you won't go.” Bill looks down at the wounded wings and sighs. He claps a hand on his shoulder, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

Gareth runs a hand through his thinning hair and shifts in his chair. “I just-”

Eve offers him a smile. “We know,” she says, squeezing his hand. “We know.”

The light streaming in through the window turns the gunmetal grey feathers silver in the autumn sun, shadows stretching across Gareth’s desk.

James and Q stick their heads around the door, survey the scene and pull faces of mild regret. "We'll come back," Q says, and back them both out of the room.

Bill smiles to himself as the wings before him become at least four feet and three inches.

**Author's Note:**

> Toxic masculinity is bad, kids.  
> I was so into wingfic a few years ago. It's like being fourteen again. 
> 
> *shudders*


End file.
